Coda
by Ink Ribbon
Summary: Maybe her coda hadn't yet ended. [A Beth!Survive story] Obviously AU-Season 5


CODA

_Noun (music) - The concluding passage of a piece or movement, typically forming an addition to the basic structure._

I.

_Dry_

She stood still at the end of church's backyard and only watched. The walkers' blackened blood and guts were everywhere, sticking and slipping through the earth beneath, poisoning it forever, the air heavy with the stink of death and grey. The undead corpses that were piled up one on another were set on fire, dark columns of smoke filling into her nostrils even from afar, reaching out to the sky. Death… everywhere around them, there was death, only death. For a moment or so, she wondered idly if she should cry, but despite the sting by the fire, her eyes were dry.

She didn't cry anymore. She had forgotten how.

She tilted her head up, her eyes wandering towards the church, searching then she found it; the cross at the heights. She thought she should at least pray, mutter a word or two for the lost souls and for people they had lost, but nothing came. Somehow, she had also forgotten how to pray.

Suddenly it felt like it suited them just right, the funerals and pyres, because she knew that she had lost, left behind something in that hospital, and funerals might as well be like a coda, a concluding passage that ended a piece of her, too.

_There're still good people in this world,_ her own voice echoed in her mind, certain and assured in its own conviction, and so _naïve_…so stupid. For a moment, she wanted to laugh, threw her head back and ripped her chest off until her lungs came out, because it was _so_ ironic, deadly and acerbic, but still funny, and was she really the only one who saw how ridiculously—fuckin'—funny was it?

Or maybe, just maybe, she was losing it, her grasp on the reality finally giving in—maybe she had just gone mad completely…maybe _she_ was right; maybe something was just wrong with her, essentially… On their own accords, her fingers found her left wrist, and caressed the calloused skin, scars running over her fingertips. Somehow, the gesture calmed her down, her breath evening, but she wasn't sure what that did mean.

She decided not to dwell on it.

On the other hand, there were other matters to dwell. This was easier, she then decided, _simple_. The church—where the group had taken refuge had been overrun. Even though they had swept off the undead, making a big bonfire out of the remains, Beth knew they could not stay. On their way back from Grady, she had heard of the talks of Washington and the cure, but if she had learned one thing in her ordeals after the turn, it was that if something sounded too good to be true, it was probably not true. There were whispers of Terminus at nights, voices low and hushed, timbers reverberating on something very akin to dread, but she had gotten wiser not to ask. She'd also learned sometimes it was best not to know.

They were going to follow the rest of the group. It was already decided, even before they'd come to Grady to rescue her. Reunions were heart-felt, especially when she took Judith into her arms again, and for a moment everything seemed fine. She knew it was only temporarily, but she was still glad there were at least left some small mercy. Maggie had left—the thought—the notion that her bigger sister had given up hope on her should have broken her heart, but Beth didn't feel anything but a dull acceptance. She understood, Maggie had priorities now, her own family. Someone like lil ol' Beth wouldn't have survived out there, _and_ she'd have _not_ survived either, if not one certain man had found her—not once, but twice…

Unbidden, her eyes skipped over the two freshly covered graves in the backyard and to the man that stood at the foot of the smaller one. In his left hand, there were some wild flowers, the roots tightly in his fist, his head crestfallen.

From far away, she could not be sure, but she knew his eyes were also dry.

Her chest tightened, her fingers tingled, and she wanted to go to him and hug him like she had done before, before when everything was not broken this way, when there was still some hope for them.

Before she had caused the only person he really cared in this suck-ass world to her death.

Slowly, Daryl walked over to Carol's grave, and gently placed the flowers over it. Standing up, his eyes caught hers, watching him from afar. Beth wondered if he blamed himself or her this time. Somehow, she could not tell.

II.

_Alive_

Three days on the road. Filthy, hot, harsh. Dangerous, deadly, nasty. Hungry, thirsty, famished… The cars had already run out of gas even before they reached to the end of the second day, so they were walking, in the middle of nowhere. With each step, Noah's voice echoed in her ears… soft and slow, trying to be convincing… _It's okay. It's not that bad, I—seen how it's…outside… It's okay._

_No,_ her own voice answered, and she didn't understand she had spoken out loud until Sasha's eyes drew to her, keenly alert. _No, it's not okay._ It was not okay.

She returned the other woman a look, and picking up speed, walked ahead. She didn't like those eyes, searching…almost looking if she would break. Sasha had lost something, too, more than a brother and a lover, but she didn't want to think about that, either. Beth wasn't going to break. She wasn't sure if there was anything left in her to break anyways. She wondered how Noah would have felt now if he had been here, wondered if _this_ was the reason why he wanted to stay at the end. She looked around, the misery surrounding them, and somehow it made sense…and she hated it. She hated it as much as she had hated when Dawn had said… _I told you._ _They always come back._

She shouldn't have done it, she knew it, but she got it. And she _hated_ it. The metal in her hand was cold and sturdy, and she wanted to do it, so—so very badly. There was only a small hesitation, only for a split of a second, then a flicker of a smile, all knowing passed over Dawn's lips—and the moment passed. She tightened her grip on the scissor and aimed it for the eye, just like she had done countless times, but never once on a still breathing being.

At the end, it didn't matter much, she figured, alive died as easily as the dead ones.

And it should've ended there…that was between them, but it didn't. There was a gunshot she barely registered, but before the bullet found its aim, callous hands grabbed her tightly, yanking her down, a harsh hiss in her ear "You fool" with a familiar heavy accent, and how she had missed it… the way rough words rolled over his tongue into a drawl, last syllables vanishing in the back of his throat, and his smell in her nostrils; sweaty, mushy, and leathery, and for a second or so she believed everything was going to be okay. The next second, with the corner of her eyes, she saw the bullet piercing through Carol's head, sputtering blood and tissue as the older woman dropped dead.

A cry, hearth ripping, wailing, and the arms that were holding her were gone. There was another gunshot, she saw Dawn falling with a hole in her head and in her eye. Other shots followed, together with screams, and she saw Noah falling—blood coming out of him, and it was wrong… everything was wrong, she had to save him. She _had_ saved him.

He shouldn't have come back, he should never come back. _They always come back._

She shook her head, as if to drive away memory. Two deaths… She wondered if they were on her or Dawn. Sometimes, she didn't know, she couldn't decide. Either way, she needed to figure out a way to live with it; that was how things were now, so said everyone. Beth finally agreed.

She wondered if that was what growing up meant in the apocalypse. A part of her still rallied against the thought, but Beth felt like its voice grew weaker and weaker with each passing day. Perhaps it just didn't matter, something else she couldn't decide. Almost instinctively, her fingertips found her left wrist.

Maybe she was really just weak, didn't have in herself what to survive. Once she had tried it but saw she still wanted to live, saw she was being just selfish, saw how Maggie was upset, how her father desolated—but her father was gone, and Maggie—well, Maggie had her own family now. Certainly she would cry for a couple of days, but eventually she would get over it. Perhaps she'd just do it. Their group—the only family had left to her—shouldn't have dealt with this. Carol—Carol certainly deserved to live…and she couldn't believe she was actually thinking—deliberately considering about it.

_I sure as hell never cut my wrists for attention…_ Daryl's voice sneered angrily at her, _never relied on anyone for anything._

She wished for a drink, that burning feel over her throat as the moonshine hit her bloodstream. Moonshine… What a strange, magical name for something that would get you blind or killed. A chuckle almost got out of her before she surpassed it at the last moment. Maybe Dawn was _really_ right. Something was _not_ right with her, mentally. All these mood swings, maybe she was just batshit crazy.

When the walkers crept out of the woods line on the road, she almost felt glad. Her lips cracked a bit as a sudden stir went over her body, her hands tingling. She clutched the knife over her belt and pulled it out. She caught the walked next to her, and pushed the blade through one slumped eye, just right into the brain. She didn't let herself feel anything else.

She could understand the buzz they all had been talked about, running through her on high, wild and feral, and she didn't care. For the first time in a long time, she wasn't afraid. She had always been so afraid. She took a step backward as the undead fell on the ground, and turning around, she found Daryl watching her from afar, another walker at his feet, his crossbow leaning against his leg, his eyes suspicious and wary.

For a fraction, their gaze caught then Beth turned and walked away. She didn't want to see those eyes, the speculation darkening them with a glint she couldn't read. Not that she wanted or anything. She didn't care. At that moment, she realized she was just glad to be alive. More or less, better or worse.

III.

_Broken_

Before the second week ended, when everything turned from merely miserable to downright wretched, they found each other again on the road. The newcomers didn't interest her, aside the muscular man having the most reddish hair she had ever seen, but Beth was past being stunned by those kinds of things. The girl was one of the many badass chicks she had seen after the world turned to crazy. Definitely not another dead girl, but she didn't care about that either anymore.

Glenn—Glenn was—sweet and tearful, and shocked, shocked to see her alive. Beth only smiled.

Maggie—well, Maggie—was _crying_. Openly, tears falling down over her dirty cheeks, her hands reaching out to her as if she couldn't believe what she was seeing, but her big sister couldn't touch her as if she was afraid Beth would disappear if she did. Beth didn't walk to her, too, just watched her crying. "I—I thought—you—" she mumbled over sobs, words broken, unable to finish, but Beth understood, so did everyone else.

"Dead?" she asked, tilting her head aside just a bit, her voice as curious as asking if today would rain. With the corner of her eyes, she caught again Daryl watching the scene a few feet apart from them, like how he usually did in these last weeks. They barely talked now, a few changes about food and water when they stopped or a few quick orders barked out when the walkers attacked, but nothing else. Daryl barely talked these days anyways. Beth turned her attention to Maggie, because she didn't want to think about that, didn't want to think how it'd been before between them, didn't want to think about the funeral home or moonshine cabin. Those memories—those memories seemed like ages ago now, from a different time—like her life in the farm, now lost forever.

So she gave out a shrug, "I know girls like me—managing it—" she started walking, "—_shocking_."

Three days later, Maggie fell at her side on the road, holding something in her hand, looking almost bright and hopeful despite their current situation. They hadn't eaten anything for days, and had only drunk a drop of water since yesterday. It was hot, almost blazing, so much that she started to think she'd already died and went to hell. She couldn't have deciphered any worse punishment than _this_ even if she tried, for the sins she had committed. Another thing she didn't want to think.

She angled her neck down, and looked at Maggie's hand. A small wooden box, the top painted with light pink, carved flowers at each side. Her feet faltered for a second. It was—beautiful, too beautiful to have in this ugly , suck-ass world. "What's it?" she asked, almost tersely.

"Carl found it in one of the cars," Maggie explained, opening the close lid to reveal the tiny ballerina inside, "It doesn't work, but—" she stopped, looking at Beth, her face losing the hopeful look, hesitance replacing in its stead. She looked down. "I thought you'd like it," she said in a whisper.

She used to like music boxes...before—when things were different. "It's broken," Beth said instead, walking away, "Just throw it away."

Throw away all the broken things—wasn't that the first rule for survival? Don't get sentimental, don't get attached. _You two boyfriend died, and you couldn't even shed a tear._

Her eyes sought Daryl on their own accounts. He was about to go back to in the woods on another run for water, adjusting his bow over his shoulder, already taking a dive in the uneven ground. On a sudden urge, she leaped forward over the gentle slope, and called after him. "Hey—" Her voice almost cracked, a strange shake in it, and she understood she was trembling, "Can I come?"

Daryl turned back aside and gave her a look over his shoulder, one hand still assisting the crossbow over the other, "Why?" he asked.

And she looked at him stupefied. _Because we need to talk_, _because I need to talk to you,_ came to the tip of her tongue but she was too tired, too fucking tired, and he was looking at her like that again, and perhaps—maybe it wasn't a good idea anyway. Then he grumbled out in his usual way, and gave out a half shrug, and turning back, he started walking away.

Beth knew he said yes in his own way. So she followed. She followed him for almost an hour without uttering a word, a few steps behind, her eyes alert, watching, her ears picked. But there was nothing; no shift through the wild grains, not a sound, no telltale snarls and growls. They were alone. She passed her hand over the long weeds, barely touching, and asked, "Are you angry at me?"

Because it really felt like he was. He had a right to be, too, because she got Carol killed, and she knew how much Daryl cared. She felt—guilty. She didn't ask for any of it. She didn't even ask them to come to save her. Daryl twisted aside toward her, tossing a look at her before turning to scan the area again. "She knew the risk," he finally said after a while, starting walking again. "Still wanted to come." A step toward to left, and a pause, then he said, "She was trying."

Wasn't all of them? Trying? Surviving in this ugly world? Wasn't that all they were doing? Beth walked closer. "I wanted to save her," she said, approaching him, but still a few inches away, because somehow it was easier this way, "They—they wanted to pull the plug on her. They thought she was too weak to survive." She smiled and gave out a bitter half laugh, "They know nothing." She stopped suddenly and swallowed a lump through her throat. "I thought you were dead—Noah—Noah said—he thought they left his father to die when they understood he was strong—I thought they left you, too."

"They ain't kidnapped me," Daryl said, almost matter-of-factly.

Well, there was that. "Yeah—" she rolled over a shrug, bowing her head, suddenly feeling at a loss. "I chased after ya—" she heard him suddenly say. She lifted her head. "All night—Lost the trails in the morning at a crossroad." Her chest tightened again, a lump in her throat, and she thought she would cry but her eyes were still dry. "Did they hurt ya?"

She shook her head, "Not much." She breathed out, "Terminus—was it bad?"

He shook his head back at her. "Not much."

And Beth knew it was, it was bad, that much. She swallowed again, shaking her head, "I—I just wanted her to die… I—didn't think. I just hated it." Another breath out, and she confessed, "I'm sorry."

Daryl shook his head again. "Wasn't yer fault," he said, and she wondered if he actually meant it, but then again Daryl Dixon wasn't the one to say things he didn't mean.

"I was just angry. The cops… others… Noah… They didn't want to leave." Suddenly the anger came back, and her voice thinned as she continued, "She kidnapped them, forced them to do—things—punished them when they didn't, but they still didn't want to leave."

He looked around then his gaze found hers. "Can't really blame 'em, huh?" He gestured around the woods, the hellish misery they'd been living in. "They ain't like you, not tough enough." She snorted out. "What happened, happened," he told her, finally walking to her, "We gotta survive now."

"I don't believe that," she shook her head, "I know how much you care."

A pained expression flicked over his features, and his jaw twitched, "I care—" he gave in, "but perhaps it's better this way," he slowly said, "Carol—it wasn't easy for her out here."

She swallowed again, and sat down, settling her back against a pine tree. It was hot, but the clouds were gathering above them, a heaviness in the air pressing them further down, tightening around them, as if the world wanted to squeeze them into their insides. "Do you have a cigarette?" she asked, lifting her head up. She'd prefer a drink, but she didn't think the redhead military guy would share his. "I've never smoked before," she added after a thought.

A glint shone in his eyes, and he fished out his torn packet and offered her one. It was an ugly thing, almost bended in two, but she still put it between her lips. He lit it for her. She took a deep breath in then started coughing.

He sat down beside her, lighting another one for himself. He took a long drag then blew it out. Beth tried again, taking in another breath. "Still believe there're good people in this world?" she asked, almost in a whisper, voice cracked not only because of the smoke.

He gave her another look, just like in the funeral home. "There's still us."

And she wanted to laugh, throw her head back and rip her lungs out, but what she'd managed was only a half shake of head. Her eyes were still dry. "It—feels like a part of me died at there, never came back."

He was silent, dragging another long breath from his cigarette, then he too shook his head. "We ain't dead, not yet."

It was so much, just so much, and she wanted to cry…but she just couldn't remember how. She turned aside and her eyes found his as his hand pressed the butt of his cigarette down on the dirt beside his hip. It suddenly made sense, perfect sense. She snuffed out her own cigarette too, and pushing herself forward twisting toward him, she caught his lips.

He went still, completely unmoving as she shifted completely and sat on his lap. He grew tenser beneath her as her lips pressed on his harder, but didn't return the kiss, just stood there, cast off stone, not kissing her back, but not pulling back either. Encouraged, her hands went to his belt, and she started unbuckling him.

_That_ put him off out of his stupor. He grabbed her hands, lifting her arms up away from his belt. "Whaddaya doin'?" he snapped out, low in a grumble, and pushed her back.

Her hands free, she waved her body to find her balance, and got closer to him again. "Something we should've done a long time ago," she whispered out, trying to kiss him again.

He pushed her back further, away from his lap. "Stop it."

She sat on her knees, and looked at him seriously, their knees inches apart. "Why?"

His eyes squinted. "Why?" he repeated back with a growl.

"Why not?" she asked, wondering how he couldn't see it, "It's the end of the fucking world."

Anger flashing in his eyes, he pulled back at his feet. "I ain't your play thing, girl."

Quickly she followed him and stood up. "No, you're not," she called after him. "I've never had sex before, not really." He stopped in his tracks, but didn't turn back to her. "Not the real deal," she clarified, "I—tonight might be the last night I'm still alive. Maybe a walker will catch us unawares and I'll get bitten, or—or—maybe, some—some people will get me—and I'll get raped and killed—and—"

Cutting her off, he whirled around. "Stop!" He closed in on her, waving his arm as in a warning, "Don't talk like that!"

She shook her head. "You don't know. You _didn't_ know the last time. No one knows. I—just—don't…know." She gave out a labored breath, feeling suddenly spent—words failing her. It was absurd, all of it. It'd seemed so logical just a few seconds ago, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, she wanted to reach out for it, have a little mercy… Now, she didn't know. "It's just too much," she mumbled out, falling on her knees again. She lifted her head up. "Maggie gave me a music box, it doesn't work. A broken thing. Everything we have is broken now." A bitter laugh escaped from her, ripping out of her throat, "We aren't dead maybe, but we're pretty close."

Daryl walked to her, and grabbing her upper arm, he pulled her up to her feet. His eyes searched for hers and held her once he found. His voice was as stern as his look when he spoke, trying to draw his point in her firmly, "We ain't dead, not yet," he repeated.

She really wanted to believe him, she really did. "I—I want to cry," she confessed, "But I don't remember how."

He shook his head. "Don't matter," he drawled out, "You ain't broken, you ain't dead."

Slowly, she let out another breath, telling herself if it was he who was saying it, then it must be the fact. So she said, "Okay."

IV.

_Dawn_

When it rained, it was like a miracle. Daryl had gone for searching water at the morning again but came back with empty hands, his face strained and stiff. She knew what that meant; they were at the edge, to make up a decision. It was either the mysterious gifts or dehydration. For Beth, it was hardly a choice, but Rick had other thoughts, so they all waited.

Then it rained, and it was so beautiful, so much as that for a while she really forgot in what kind of world she now lived in, only thinking how beautiful it was to feel raindrops on her skin, cool and wet, and when she opened her mouth and tasted them, it felt like heaven on earth.

She fell on the ground, tired and drained, but something—it took long to understand she felt happy. On instinct, her eyes sought for Daryl as he threw his head back, catching raindrops into his mouth, his arms open in the air as if in a pray. No man ever looked more beautiful than he was at that moment, his angel wings rising over his back with his hands up in the air.

Then the next moment, the walkers attacked.

And she was not surprised, not even a bit. This was how things were now. She simply accepted that. They weren't dead, not yet, and it was enough. She felt no fear, no dread. Just before her knife went through the limping creature's brain, she wondered absently how it'd feel eaten alive, something painful, sure, but yet she still wasn't afraid. She'd been so afraid before… wondering if she ever got bitten, would have remembered… something—anything. Her mother—her brother—Jimmy—Zach, all the people she had lost, and then losing them again in that way. Such a shame.

There was no fear now. Kneeling, she plunged the knife into another walker, a pitiful one—sneering at the ground, trying gnawing at her, and it was pitiful, just pitiful to watch, her stroke more than anything felt like mercy. Somewhere back in there, she could hear Sasha's guttural screams, angry, heart-wrenching. Beth wasn't angry, either, not anymore.

Another walker launched its rotting body on her, but she didn't push back. There were still a few steps between them, and she wanted to see. She waited for it, rain pouring over her. Somewhere from her left side she could hear Maggie's screams, a constant screech of her name, but she didn't bother to check it. Her attention was fixed ahead of her, waiting—waiting... One step ahead, and another—and another—she could feel its foul smell heavier now, the decay and blight, a ruin of life, broken and demolished. Then she felt it again—pity, but she wasn't sure anymore for whom she felt it.

Perhaps just for all the broken, ruined things.

She raised her hand to end its misery but before she could do it, the bolt whistled above her head and hit it at the eye. The walker dropped down on the damp ground. Beth turned aside and looked at Daryl, who was giving her one of those looks of his over his crossbow, stern eyes glinting under dark wet locks. He closed in on her after a second, lowering the bow and whispered at her angrily. "_Don't_," he warned, "It ain't gonna help," he fixed at her another look, plucking his bolt out free off the fallen rotting body, "Don't think. Just do it."

She pretended she didn't understand what he was saying.

When the storm hit, they retreated back to the barn he had found in the morning. Outside, the wind was blowing, a wailing screech, and she tried not to think what would happen if it the barn couldn't hold up against the raging storm. Her stomach heaved, but it was not because of fear, no. Funnily, she still wasn't afraid.

But she was battered, hungry, thirsty, her stomach doing funny things with the dog meat, but she wasn't still dead yet, and it was what mattered in deep down, right?

Oh, god, she wished she could cry.

She opened her mouth, to implore, but the only thing came to her was… _Why?_

_Why do you let this happen to us? Why have you forsaken us?_

From where she laid down, she opened her arms to her sides, as if she was on a cross.

_Faith ain't done shit for us—_

At that moment, she understood with everything else, she also had lost her faith. It was not like she didn't believe in God, no, she knew he was still there. It was just that he didn't care anymore what happened to them.

Deep inside the barn, they waited the storm passed away, tending a small, controlled fire. She drew her legs over chest, wrapping her arms and rested her head on her knees, wind thundering over the wooden cracks. The clashing noises from outside was almost deafening, a weather only pregnant for bad things. Rick was telling a story of his dead grand father, but Beth wasn't listening. She wondered if they would really find what they were looking for in DC. There was no cure, but they still kept going. She then realized none of them had any fucking idea what they were doing. They were just drifting around. _I was just drifting around with Merle… I was nobody._

She felt like she was nobody.

She glanced at Daryl from where she rested her head… _I wish I could just…change._

And now that she did, she wished she hadn't. "We tell ourselves that we're the walking dead," Rick said suddenly, and her head snapped up at him.

They were all looking at him, so appalled to talk, almost in dismay. Across the circle, her eyes found again Daryl's as his face set in a deep frown, shaking his head in disapproval. "Nah…" he said slowly, standing up, "We ain't them." He fixed Rick a solemn look, his eyes briefly catching hers before he repeated, this time in higher notes, as if he wanted everyone to understand the words with a perfect clarity, _"We ain't them."_

Rick slowly nodded back as Daryl went away. "No, brother, we're nothing like them," Rick called after him, "We're nothing like them."

Daryl didn't turn back.

She sought him out an hour later, as he paced agitated in the front of the barn's door, still build up with his pent-up energy, still rallying, because she knew he just couldn't accept it. She always knew he was going to be the last man standing.

"Hey," she called out at him.

He stopped in his steps, and looked at her, bowing his head. "Hey." They stared at each other in silence for a few seconds, because she couldn't remember why she'd sought him, why she had followed him at the first place. She realized then there was no specific reason, that she just wanted his company. A redness crept over her skin and she was glad that the gloom of the barn would hide it.

"I—" She began, then faltered, "I—I wanted to apologize—" she started again, "for what I did back there—" she made a vague gesture with her head, knowing he caught up what she was trying to say.

"S'okay," he interrupted, suddenly sounding shy and away.

She shook her head. "I don't know what got me. I'm sorry. I shouldn't do it."

He shrugged, and repeated, "S'okay."

Beth nodded back, staring at him then started turning away before the moment became even weirder, feeling all stupid, real time stupid. Then she heard it. Daryl must have heard it too, because he leapt forward, pushing his back along the massive door, his arms raised at his side.

He looked on a cross, too, Beth thought a second before she threw herself next to him, holding the door with her shoulder. Their eyes caught each other, as the snarls and grunts from outside reached over them even in the roaring storm.

That must be some numbers out there, dead banging at their doorstep, but holding up his gaze, she didn't think it really mattered. They were here, they were alive, against at all odds, and this time she wasn't going to leave him. Soon waking up from the clamor, others joined them at the door, all pushing, holding, enduring… She pushed all her weight on the door, with all of her being. They were enduring.

It was just before the dawn when a hand slowly shook her out of the dreams. She blinked a few times, faint, grey sunlight creeping over the cracks in the wood, and opened her eyes at Daryl's hovering figure over her.

She opened her mouth, but he silenced her gently placing a finger on her lips. "Shhs," he whispered, "I wanna show ya something." He pulled her up and led her outside.

Dawn—the sun was breaking. They passed through slowly lifting mist in the forest, fallen logs and trees, pining down walkers at everywhere. There, absolution, a miracle before her very eyes, so bizarre it almost made her cry. They were not forsaken. Not yet.

Words found her, came to the tip of her tongue on their own accounts. _Thank you, and forgive me,_ she muttered inwardly. _Let us endure, please._

On a gentle slope at a hilltop, they watched the sun rise in the horizon, coloring the sky in an orange hue. "It's beautiful," she muttered, almost mesmerized by its beauty. It was another kind of wonders you forgot to appreciate when you only lived for surviving.

Daryl nodded. "Wanted ya to see it," he repeated. And her chest tightened again, but this time it didn't bother her. Then she caught the sight of wooden box in his hand. "Here take it—" He held the music box out to her, "I fixed it. It ain't broken now."

Her eyes started hurting, pricking, but she knew her cheeks were dry. "Daryl—" she muttered hoarsely, and stopped because she didn't know what to say. She bowed her head down and looked at the box then carefully she opened it, and revealed the tiny little ballerina as she started twirling around herself, music playing out.

She lifted her head, her sight suddenly blurred through a mist. "You gotta stay who you're," he told her, his voice soft but serious, gazing at the little ballerina, "Places like that—" he continued, "You gotta put 'em away."

A sound broke out of her, and she didn't know if it was a laugh or a sob. "What if you can't?"

"You have to," he told her simply like she had done, "Or it kills you." He pointed at his chest. "Here."

Without a word, she carefully placed the music box down, and walked toward him. When she wrapped her arms around him, he didn't hesitate, held her back tightly. She rested her head over his heart where he had pointed, and finally, finally felt wetness over her cheeks.

As she cried silently, the music went on playing.

Maybe her coda hadn't yet ended.

* * *

_Author Note: Just started watching TWD, and was fairly surprised how things went with Beth, surprised and a bit pissed, I think it was just a waste of good character development. Have nothing against Carol, but while I was watching season five, I really felt like she was not going to make it because of what happened with children after the prison fall, and was shocked to see that she survived. I also feel like her arc became a lot of repetitive in the later seasons,__ and also wanted to show some consequences for Beth's rather dumb move against Dawn, hence I chose to go with Carol dying instead of Beth, and Noah too, because why not? It's not like they did something so different with the boy in the show, either._

_Hope you enjoyed, I've already started a re-write for the rest of season from Daryl's POV. Will have it up as soon as possible._

_Cheers._


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